


For the Taking

by BanimalQ



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Lost Love, M/M, Pining, angst-perfect, au within au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3272009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanimalQ/pseuds/BanimalQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sees a ghost from his past in young John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Taking

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [For the Picking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074505) by [QuickLikeLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight). 



> As I was finishing up QuickLikeLight's For the Picking, I misread the next to last line. For days that misread line stayed with me and I dreamt up all sorts of side stories, most of them coalescing into the story you'll find here. Having a moment of doubt, I went back last night and read For the Picking again to see if I had indeed misread that fateful line. I couldn't let it go, and I thought that this would fit within the original story enough to be a sort of AU within AU (thanks for that term, Hannah).

If he was asked, Victor Trevor would tell you that they had been friends their entire lives. Sherlock would scoff at that sentiment. Though they had often been physically in the same spaces since he had been born (Victor older by six weeks), Sherlock would have to do some research into when children are able to form emotional bonds as pedestrian as _friendships_. He would concede to the fact that he and Victor had been almost inseparable once Sherlock was able to talk (Sherlock’s mother still claims that his first words were “I am not leaving Victor’s house . . . ever”, though Sherlock would not agree to that statement aloud), what with the Trevor family being the closest neighbors to the Holmes estate.

By the time the boys entered nursery school, Victor had become Sherlock’s biggest (and only) defender. The sandy hair boy kicked a bully in the shins on the playground for taunting Sherlock, quickly grabbing Sherlock’s hand and yelling “Run!”

Each year a new bully would rise within the school play yard and mark Sherlock as being fair game for bullying, and each year Victor would stand by Sherlock's side to fight back.

The beginning of Year 7 found Victor and Sherlock sitting on a bench outside the headmaster’s office. Sherlock with a bloody lip and bruised ribs (the older boys in the school were a bit more physical in their distaste of Sherlock’s deductive skills), and Victor’s knuckles cut and swollen (though he was now a head shorter than most of the other boys, he made up for it in strength hidden beneath his uniform jumper). Both boys stared ahead, this being a familiar situation, though a new school. 

“That thing you did . . . that was good,” Sherlock forced out. A smile spread across Victor’s face as he leaned in to bump shoulders with Sherlock.

Their parents had long since given up worrying about a missing boy from the house. Knowing that Sherlock had a way of running off “for a case” and Victor would faithfully tag along. Weekends meant reenactments of crime scenes or checking the property for ongoing experiments. When the weather turned cold or particularly foul they could be found in the library of the Holmes house, heads bent towards each other, whispering over books or newspapers.

Towards the end of secondary school they rarely moved without touching. A hand on the others elbow or back. Shoulders and knees pressed against each other as they sat on the sofa watching a movie. Hands clasped as they chased down a lead. An arm thrown carelessly around a waist during the night as they shared a bed.

The summer before they began Sixth Form, as they lay in the soft grass next to the pond between their homes, fingers clasped, things changed.

If he was asked, Victor Trevor would smile and tell you that Sherlock rolled to his side first. Sherlock would scoff at the sentiment.

It didn’t matter who moved first. It didn’t matter that they had been building to this moment their entire lives. It didn’t matter that Sherlock kept his eyes wide open and as their lips moved towards each other. It didn’t matter that the world seemed to still, allowing the pieces to fall into place, to make Sherlock feel whole.

It mattered that Mr. Trevor’s meeting in Paris had been cancelled, along with the following meeting in Brussels. It mattered that for the first time in over a decade he chose to come home for a bit of a holiday instead of rescheduling future meetings to fill his calendar. It mattered that when he felt a small twinge of guilt for being so absent from his son’s life that he decided to seek him out at the pond at the butler’s suggestion. It mattered that he walked out of the woods, into the clearing by the pond as his son and Sherlock Holmes kissed in the soft grass.

It mattered because Victor was sent off to boarding school in Switzerland, never to contact Sherlock again.

If he was asked, seventeen years after that kiss by the pond, Sherlock Holmes would say that relationships were not really his area. He was married to his work. For some reason he thought that he could help teach people to actually think; to not just see, but to observe. He clearly overestimated the general populations potential. He kept his job to piss off Mycroft.

The ringing bell settled twenty fresh faced students into their desks. A stack of papers was dropped on the nearest desk, without a downward glance, and the command “See that everyone gets one.” Roll was causally called, a brief glance towards each responding “Here” to put face to the name (not that he particularly cared).

Watson, John. The last name on the list. A brief glance. And the world seemed to still. Visions long since deleted (or so he thought), of a sandy hair boy, hands entwined, panting breaths, and soft grass filling his mind. Abruptly, turning towards the board, chalk in hand, he paused. Memories quickly put in holding into a nearby closet of his mind palace. Equations scrawled on the board. Silence but for the occasional screech of chalk against slate.

Weeks pass. Memories flood Sherlock’s mind at the most inopportune times; mid sentence during a lecture on dynamic equilibrium, in a lab while holding acidic chemicals in each hand. He finds himself comparing the two boys during exams. Victor’s nose was more angular. His eyes brown not blue. His hair a bit finer. Their bodies both strong and compact.

There are times when John Watson is at his locker or bent over the water fountain and Sherlock has to physically keep himself from calling out Victor’s name. Times when Sherlock’s memories morph, John lying next to Sherlock by the pond. John’s lips pressed against his.

If he was asked, Sherlock would tell you that he went to football practices because he and Greg shared a flat and it made more sense for him to wait so they could share a cab at the end of the day. He didn’t admit to himself that sat on the sidelines watching John, dreaming of Victor. He didn’t admit that he stayed to watch the looks John blatantly sent in Greg’s direction. That he stayed to be reminded that John was not Victor, and he was not his to take.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my rantings on all things Sherlock on my [blog](https://fanlock.wordpress.com/2015/02/01/for-the-taking/) or the [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sosicksobeautiful) account that I barely know how to work. And when I say "all things" I really mean a small slice of what I deem obsession worthy and am productive enough to rant about


End file.
